Tonight, We Spun Tupperware

I wage a near-daily battle with mommy guilt.

I have to work to support us and I'm glad to do it. I'm also grateful that I have skills that someone is willing to pay me to use. A lot of people can't say that these days. But even considering that, it bugs me that I don't get much quality time with my boy during the week and that our weekends are swallowed up with errands and chores I couldn't accomplish during the week. And the time we do have (about 3 hrs a night between pickup and bedtime) is fraught with land mines.

Both of us hand it all out during the day--him with play and me with work--so by the time we're together, neither of us is at our best, to say the least. He's tired and crabby, I'm tired and crabby. And, I'm in a hurry (Ever tried to rush a toddler? How 'bout a crabby one? Yeah. Super fun). Because it takes the better part of an hour to get home at night and I KNOW he's going to whine and crab for his dinner until it's served, I get it started right away, leaving him to entertain himself as well as he can. I won't mention his hunger is because of his stubborn refusal to eat anything all day but crackers and Nilla Wafers at daycare. That's how generous a mother I am.

Anyway, we sit down to eat. Well, I eat. He makes a mess with some chewing and interjections of "nummy!" or, "no!" thrown in there. Then there's time for a bit of rough housing, a bath depending on the day of the week, a book, a prayer and bed. This is the Cliff's Notes version of the story. The unabridged version also describes tantrums, head bumps, diaper wars, messes and broken stuff (always mine). In my effort to take care of him, I might only make eye contact with him 4 or 5 times before I put him to bed. Even typing that crushes me.

I walk a fine line. On one side, keeping to a rigid schedule with him because every parent I meet, parenting book I read and motherly instinct I have tells me that structure and consistency give a child a feeling of safety and security, two things I desperately want to provide for him. Possibly because they're the only things I can afford. On the other side, giving in to the urge to let it all go, either from exhaustion or a simple desire not to plan every, blessed thing. I'm sure neither of those is good for us, nor are they sustainable over the long haul, so I'm working on finding some semblance of a middle ground.

Sometimes, though, through the white noise of all my struggles with balancing work and parenthood, there are moments of clarity. Moments where it feels like the stars align and I get it right. Like tonight, for example. Most of the time when I'm making dinner, Miles plays around my feet. He doesn't mind independent play as long as we're in the same room. I kind of like it, too. He mills around the room, moving all the kitchen-y things he's allowed to play with from place to place. He babbles, sings the ABC song, jumps in circles, dances and occasionally wraps his arms around my knees for a cuddle and a smile. He also empties the Tupperware cabinet. Nobody says Tupperware, anymore, they use Rubbermaid, you say? I say, get your own blog post. Tupperware is like Kleenex to me. It covers all plastic storage containers and also has the added benefit of dating me. But I digress. Tonight, I made a casserole, so after dinner prep, I had 15 minutes of oven time to kill. I looked down to find Miles spinning plastic bowls on the floor. With a flip of the wrist, he gets upwards of 30 minutes of cheap entertainment. He loves spinning things; especially circular things--bowls, lids, coasters--he's spun 'em all. I decided to join him. I didn't think he'd pay me much attention since he can be so focused on the task, but it turns out he was thrilled to have me--as a jungle gym, as an obstacle to dance around, a fellow bowl spinner and best of all, a lap to crawl into for a cuddle. He put down those bowls to snuggle and to play Name-That-Feature on mama's face. When we got to cheeks, he cupped mine with his chubby little paws, looked closely into my eyes, babbled something I couldn't understand and planted two, sweet kisses on my mouth.

I swear to God, that kid knows how hard I'm trying.

Memories

In a former life, a boyfriend of mine wrote me a love note with these lyrics:

Black is the color of my true love's hair

Her lips are like some roses fair

She has the sweetest smile the gentlest hands

And I love the ground whereon she stands

I love my love, and well she knows

I love the ground whereon she goes

I wish the day soon would come

When she and I will be as one

Such a sweet memory. The sentiment isn't bad, either...

My Mystique Has Lost Its Mystique

Spoiler Alert: this post is very whiney.

I'm enjoying a rare moment of solitude. The buddy has a cold--one of those slimy, sniffle-y, cough-y, whiney ones--so I can't take him to church. Church ladies frown on bringing carrier monkeys into the nursery, even if they look like cute, little men in their sweater vests. He's sleeping, so I could nap, but I think I'd rather be awake while it's quiet for a change.

I'm an introvert--in the need-to-recharge-by-time-spent-alone kind of way. Every now and again, I like to slip away some place solitary to refuel, but that doesn't happen a lot these days. From the moment my eyes open to the time they close again, I'm on duty. My life is constant interruption, and frankly, I'm not handling it with much grace, lately.

When I was single with no kid, this wasn't a problem. After a long week, or even just a long day, I could disappear any time I needed. Now that I have a toddler and a baby-daddy to love on every day, it's become a tad more complicated. I'm never alone--not to eat, to watch tv, to shower, to pee--unless I'm asleep. My life is on a constant loop of family time + full-time work + chores/errands - solitude - sleep = terminal exhaustion. Lather, rinse, repeat. And the worst part? I miss them when they're gone, so I'm complaining about stuff I really wouldn't change. I hate when I do that.

I guess I just wish I could sneak off for a few hours to plug in somewhere every now and then. What is that reminding me of? A movie where the characters plug into an external power source? Seems like it was an outlet or maybe a glowing orb...doesn't matter; I'm too scatterbrained to focus on it long enough to figure it out. THE MATRIX! Thank God. That was going to drive me nuts.

If I ever get to meet Betty Friedan, I'm gonna give her a stern talking to. She didn't say having it (or doing it) all would be this hard.

Thanks for stopping by. Good talk.

What on Earth Was I Thinking??

In a moment of blind sentiment, I decided to take my 1 year old on a date for Valentine's Day.

I planned to do a little window shopping at the mall, eat at the food court and play at kiddie land, all while I smiled benevolently at my busy, beautiful and well-behaved offspring. When it was time to leave, I would quietly give him a five-minute warning, after which he would walk over to me, reach for my hand and we'd go home. There I would help him wash his face, brush his teeth, we'd read a book, cuddle and pray. Then, I would tenderly tuck him into bed for the night.

What happened was quite different. At 5:30, I picked up a surly toddler who'd had a very long day. He was hopped up on sugar from his daycare Valentine's party an hour before. He was also ready to eat dinner and be left alone. Instead, it took us an hour to get to the mall (note: he sucked down 12 oz of milk on the drive), where he protested (loudly) to being confined to a stroller while I looked at earrings. I rushed through a purchase I now regret then moved on to dinner. I eyed our choices at the food court and realized, "yeah, he's not gonna eat any of this crap." Instead, I spent $10 of a hard-earned gift card for a turkey and swiss sandwich and more milk.

I rode the elevator up to the food court to eat (did I mention he's terrified of elevators?), where he objected (loudly) to being confined to a stroller while we ate. Seeing a pattern, here? I scarfed down my food. He scarfed down his. Then he loudly protested that there was no more milk. I wasn't spending $2 on another carton--he'd already had sixteen ounces in two hours. I told him he wasn't getting any more damned milk (no swearing; but I felt like it). He knocked over his stroller in impotent rage. I dragged him, kicking and screaming, back to the elevator, decided it wasn't worth it, and did what I swore I'd never do. I hauled my screaming toddler, an overstuffed diaper bag and an umbrella stroller down the escalator. He wasn't in the stroller, but still...I work for an escalator manufacturer where I get almost daily reports of escalator injuries due to stupid choices that passengers make. Even before I worked here, I judged parents harshly for doing what I was doing. I learned a valuable lesson in humility last night.

During that ride, I discovered his diaper was soaked (Remember sixteen ounces?) and toted him to the family changing room. Thus ensued a 5-minute death-match over changing that diaper. I won, but not without collateral damage and a great deal of sweat. Thank God there were no mandated reporters in there.

Then I thought, "let's end this trip on a high note and go to the play place, instead of going straight home!" Dumb idea. Apparently, Valentine's evening is when fathers take their smart phones and their children to the play place at the mall, so they can ignore them in an enclosed space. These kids, like mine, are also wound up from earlier candy binges. I chased my ecstatic and blissfully unaware boy around a 20-foot enclosure for 25 minutes, begging much bigger children not to step on, roll over, push or otherwise maim him in their sugar-induced euphorias. After his last narrow escape from death, I decided to call it quits, which is when the top of his head exploded.

Okay, it didn't, but it surely seemed like it. I dragged him--arching, screeching, and hitting--out of the mall and into the car. He babbled angrily at me all the way home, where I stripped him, shoved him into jammies and tossed him in bed--no book, no cuddle, no prayer.

Yep. Mother of the year, right here.

Daddy Day Care

I’m a mom who works full-time away from home. I’m grateful for my work—I’ve got great benefits, a degree of flexibility and supportive work environment that allows me to respond to family emergencies, a place to interact with other adults on a regular basis and it (mostly) helps me to afford childcare when I can’t be with my son. In my mind, childcare is both a blessing and a curse. It’s so expensive that I know several parents who decided one of them would stay home with the kids because taking a job, simply to afford to pay someone to watch their kid(s) while they worked, didn’t make sense. In our case, neither of us loves that our boy is in the care of others multiple days a week, but it’s a necessary evil. As parents, we both need to work. I work for the benefits and intellectual stimulation and he, because he was born to make music. Were he not teaching young aspirants to play guitar, writing, engineering and performing, he’d shrivel up and float away on a breeze—and not in a good way. Knowing that makes it that much more remarkable that to keep down costs and to have as much face-time with Miles as possible, he’s sacrificed two weekdays of his more-flexible work schedule to care for our son since I went back to work when the baby was 3 months old. And since that first day, back in August of 2011, many hijinks have ensued.


Let me paint you a picture of life on Daddy’s watch:

-Pants are optional, socks encouraged to ward off cold floors. Comfort is the word of the day.

-No loop is ever completely closed. At the end of the day, my apartment usually looks like they were interrupted in the middle of many tasks and asked to vacate the premises, immediately. Or, to give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe they were body-snatched by aliens for a father/son mind probe experiment and hadn't yet been returned by their captors. But he takes out the trash and recycling, no matter what.

-Messes are tolerated, vomit is forbidden. If I’m home, clean up is my job. If I'm not home, I will still get a call for moral support (which is usually an unspoken request to come home, asap). On the flip side, he will stand by and supportively apologize that Miles has spewed his lunch all over me and will verify that yes, this is truly gross and awful. Then, while I tend to the kid, he will spray any affected surface with cleaning enzymes (while swearing and gagging). High comedy. He's much better at poop than I am, though, and is way more respectful of (and patient with) wiener time on the changing table. Fair trade, I'd say.

-Drinks abound. The kid will never go thirsty on his watch. He plies him with a steady stream of liquids the whole day, whether he’s asking for them or not. Maybe he died in a drought in a former life, I don’t know.

-Mama gets all the kisses. He's not totally sold on the idea that it's okay to get kissed on the mouth by his son, but he's always a bit jealous that the buddy kisses me so freely, while considering it a game to avoid giving or receiving them from him.

-No choking. Our boy eats in big mouthfuls and makes gagging faces when he’s bitten off more than he can chew, which drives Daddy crazy. He regularly requests that we brush up on our infant/toddler Heimlich maneuver skills. Heaven forbid, but if it should ever become necessary to use it, I’m not sure if I’d put my money on him doing a bang-up job and saving the day or passing out, cold. We’ll pray that I never get that question answered.

-Sitters must be qualified. When considering outside child care, his concerns have nothing to do with early childhood certification. He wants to know if they remember to take the buddy's shoes and jeans off for nap time. It makes sense, I guess. One should be comfy while sleeping.

-No “babying.” When the boy is trying a new skill, he doesn't hover or help, like it's my tendency to do. He stands by and encourages him to keep trying. The kid always rises to the occasion.

-Good food is king. He won’t cook if he can avoid it, especially for a picky and ungrateful toddler who will reject it anyway. Also, he rarely keeps to any kind of eating schedule for himself, let alone the kid, but he has tasted every food he's ever given him, including baby food, because he wants to know what is good and why the kid likes it. He always offers a veggie, cares that the water is clean with good minerals and will go to three stores to buy organic. I do not have the patience (or stomach) to do this.

-No energy will be spent unnecessarily. He'll take a bath with Miles, forsaking any chance of peace and relaxation and risking unauthorized peeing, to save time and effort. He also still encourages two naps a day, though Miles can go with just one.

-Stop and smell the flowers. He values a meandering walk in the sunshine, daily roughhousing, and would rather hunker down on the floor making cool car sounds than to plop the kid in front of the TV (not that this doesn't happen in an emergency).

-Material things aren’t what matters. Miles plays with and climbs all over his expensive music equipment, because he wants him to learn how to use the real stuff. So I have a one year old who knows his way around a guitar, a drum kit, a Bluetooth speaker and more. I don't know how to work any of these things.

-Certain details are important—others aren’t. He won't notice if the outfit he puts on the buddy no longer fits, especially if it is one he loves. However, my taste will be challenged if the outfit I choose isn't up to his standard of cool. *sigh* There is no justice.

The daily drudgery of caring for a toddler isn’t his #1 choice of how to spend a day, but he does it like he does everything else—to the beat of his own drum, getting all the joy from the experience that he can. I’m sure he will breathe a sigh of relief when it’s no longer necessary, but secretly miss the good times. When it’s my shift, I often do things differently, but Miles never lacks anything important either way. In fact, he thrives. And let's face it, pants-optional isn’t a bad way to live.

What a Difference a Year Makes

2012 was not my year. There are things about it that I loved—epic travels, building and deepening relationships with family and friends, rekindling my fledgling faith and desire for intimacy with God, and most of all, the precious front-row seat that I had to the buddy’s milestones—those things were delightful. All the rest? Not so much. It was rough and I felt every bit of it—on any given day, you could find me soaking up the hardship like a sponge and wallowing in the slog. I’ll be the first to say that a good mope can be satisfying. Fortunately, I can also say I've lost patience with downward spirals. It’s not who I am, nor is it what I want my son to learn about how to handle the bumps and bruises life will hand him. I choose to reset the balance of power between myself and my circumstances. All I can actually control in this life is my reaction to it. I hope by modeling that, with God and his daddy’s and my help, my son will become a man capable of the same thing.


2013 will be better. I’m certain of it.

Facebook Is the Sewing Circle of the 21st Century

Parenthood is troubleshooting on crack.

From the moment your child is born, you're enslaved to his/her needs. They don't help you out, either. The only hint you get to clarify what's going on is the specific pitch and volume of their cries. You're always consulting an inner checklist for clues. "He's crying. Dry diaper? Check. Fed? Check. Cuddled? Check. Napped? Check. All uncomfortable tags/buttons/labels removed from clothing or bedding? Check." As toddlers, crying is replaced by whining and pointing and as teenagers, by unending requests for food/your car/credit card/bone marrow/soul. I've spoken with parents of adults (presumably-verbal) and the work doesn't stop once they move out. You think you'll get free once you're no longer solely responsible for their health and well-being, but you never fully escape. You're always concerned about them and gritting your teeth each time they make a decision, hoping that they make good choices and take care of themselves. The punch line? Unless you murder them as 11 year olds for setting off fireworks in the basement or for hanging their sister on a coat hook in the closet, the plan is that they will outlive you. It's constant. And it's for the rest of your life.


I'm at the beginning stages of the whole fiasco and I'm already over it. Not to wish away time, but some days I cannot wait for him to be able to tell me what's wrong, so that I can either fix it or show him how to do it, instead of what we currently do which is wander aimlessly around the house, while he whines and points at things I can't pinpoint saying, "ma, WOOK!" He's really quite patient with my incompetence, when I think about it. He can keep that up for hours.

I realize I'm lucky my son is so laid-back. He doesn't require much beyond the basics--a space to run and squirm, trucks to push, baths without the scary suds, yummy food to eat and my regular attention. But even he can be a complete mystery. We kick along together most times, but there are days when I don't know how to get him to ________ (fill in the blank) and it's not like it was back in the old days (that's what I call the time when it was common that new moms lived within minutes of their mothers, or sometimes even with their mothers and had hands-on, regular help with all the kid stuff). I always imagine it like something out of Little House on the Prairie. Mothers, sitting in a circle, bent over their knitting, discussing their struggles with new babies, giving and receiving advice as needed, sometimes just listening and being entertained.  Why the frontier? Maybe because I feel like a pioneer with this kid. Every day is a new adventure. Why knitting? Leave me alone, it's my metaphor.

That's why I like Facebook so much. I know...a revolutionary statement, coming from me. Those of you who have suffered my past diatribes on social media know I didn't always like it. I don't really have 700 friends that I want or need to talk to on a daily basis. I talk to three people regularly and some days even that is three too many. Nor, if I'm honest, am I all that interested in where you went today or who went with you. That's how I used to feel. Then I (grudgingly) began to post regular updates to keep our out-of-town families up on the buddy's growth, development and general cuteness. I'm not sure how it happened, but somewhere amid the late night feedings and the isolation that came with feeling completely out of my element, I came to depend on that network at the end of my mouse pointer. I began to check in regularly for to-the-minute, hands-on advice on sleep training, teething, problems eating and even with emergency day care referrals. Not once has my cyber-mommy network let me down. Daddies chime in from time to time, too. Now I find that even when I don't have a kiddie question or emergency, I'll stop by anyway. I take opportunities to encourage other mothers at the end of their ropes or to offer advice and ideas on eating and sleep training. I tell people where I'm going and who's with me. I stalk the pages of my regulars--people I communicate with on some level at least a couple of times a month. Sometimes, I go just to be entertained. On those days when I'm out of my element, I don't feel so isolated anymore and it's in part due to the sewing circle.

Love it.